


The Feasts of the Seven

by Gefionne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged up Sansa, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Pregnancy, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor share the Seven Feasts - A tourney for the Feast of the Warrior ends with Sandor as champion and, by the will of the king, Sansa as his prize. Over the next year, they get to know each other as they find their way in their new home at Clegane Keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Feast of the Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> A very belated gift for vanillaparfait for the SanSan LiveJournal Holiday Exchange 2014
> 
> I'm my own beta, so please forgive any small errors.

**Invocation**

There is no godswood in the castle. It was built far too late and too far south. She had grown used to the solitude the sacred place of the old gods had once afforded her, but in this place she is free of the clamor of court life that she had sought refuge from. And neither is she alone. Even when her maids and her husband are gone from her, there is still the child that grows in her belly. Smiling, she touches her fingers to her gown, the skin beneath stretched taut. Today is the Feast of the Warrior, the celebration of bold deeds, honors, and feats of strength. She lights a candle before the altar for him, reciting familiar prayers. The child is unsettled as she kneels, but quiets when she begins to sing:

 _The Warrior stands before the foe,_  
_protecting us where e'er we go._  
_With sword and shield and spear and bow,_  
_he guards the little children._

 She smiles to herself, knowing that one year ago, she was little Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves, and now she is someone altogether different…

 

**The Feast of the Warrior**

No cushions were lined up before the altar, and the stone beneath her knees was cold and rough. She shifted to alleviate some of the discomfort, feeling the skirt of her gown snag. It was once one of her finest, but it had seen too many months of wear. She should have been ashamed to be seen in it; once she would have been. What mattered then meant little too her now. Fine fabrics and elaborate braids could not fill the hole in her heart left by the deaths of her father, her brothers, her mother, her sister. She was alone as she had never been before. Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves.

She had long since stopped asking the gods why. Her prayers had been met with nothing but silence, and she was sure now that there were no gods, only men, and she had far less faith in them than she ever had in the Seven. She had been beaten, betrayed, and abandoned in her cold tower room. A shade of the girl she had been at Winterfell, she felt as though she would soon begin to fade away.

Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, expecting the flesh to flake away with even the gentlest breeze. Her head felt light, even as her vision began to darken. She could feel herself falling, but could do nothing to stop it. She prepared for the pain of striking the ground, but it never came.

 

 <<< >>>

 

She woke in her bed, thinking perhaps that she dreamed she was in the Sept, pretending to pray to the Warrior upon his feast day. The door to her chambers opened with a crash, and she expected to see a maid, but instead she saw the towering form of Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He carried a large wooden bowl from which steam was rising.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that used to frighten her.

“What happened?” she managed to ask, though her mouth was dry.

“You fainted,” said Clegane. “Nearly fell right onto the flagstones in the sept. Lucky I caught you when I did.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said. “I didn’t know you went to the sept.”

He snorted. “I don’t, save for when I’m looking for you. What the bloody hell were you doing, girl? The sun wasn't even up.”

“I wanted to be alone,” she replied, sitting up. She was still wearing her shabby gown.

“You weren’t alone enough up here?” Clegane demanded, striding over to her bedside. He held out the bowl. “Eat.”

Sansa was not hungry. She never was anymore, not properly. Clegane had threatened more than once to force food “down her pretty gullet” if she didn’t do it herself. She had grown used to him watching her as she took her meals, waiting to make sure each bite of bread and forkful of meat was gone from her plate. It was the way one watched a child, to make sure she ate the peas as well as the beef.

“ _The Warrior stands before the foe_ ,” she recited, a smile touching her lips, “ _protecting us where e'er we go._ ”

Clegane’s frown deepened, but before he could snap at her, Sansa stuffed a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Clegane scoffed, but his expression softened somewhat.

“I fainted,” Sansa said after she had swallowed. The stew was good, rich and thick.

“You have no strength if you don’t eat,” Clegane said.

Sansa held up her spoon defensively. “I am.”

“Not enough,” he grumbled.

“Enough for a bird,” she replied.

“But not for a wolf.” He went to the window. The sun had risen by then and there was quite a bit of noise coming from the yards below. They were familiar sounds: the ring of steel, the clatter of plate armor, the splintering of wooden lances. They heralded the start of the tourney King Joffrey had ordered fought for the Feast of the Warrior.

“Will you ride today?” Sansa asked between bites of stew.

“Kingsguard always ride,” he replied.

“For the king.”

Clegane said nothing, continuing to look out the window. Sansa finished her stew in silence and then slid out of bed. She showed Clegane the empty bowl.

“I feel better,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll call the maid,” he said, letting Sansa’s thanks fall flat. “You’re expected at the proving grounds.”

Sansa sighed, already exhausted from the idea of dressing and sitting near the king who had ordered her father beheaded.

“I’ll come back for you,” said Clegane as he went out.

He was replaced by the rotund maid with the voice like a cat’s yowl. She helped Sansa out of her clothes, but fell into despair as she looked through the equally worn dresses in the wardrobe.

Sansa pointed to a gown of deep green velvet, its sleeves slashed with yellow. “That one will do. No one will be looking at me after all.”

The maid made a few worried noises, but then dropped the gown over Sansa’s head. She laced it and then bid her sit so that she could braid Sansa’s hair.

Sansa shook her head. “I want it down.”

The maid settled for brushing it. It had grown longer and thicker, falling to her waist in russet waves.

The maid left her after that, and Sansa was once again alone in her bedchamber. She was accustomed to waiting. She was rarely sent for any longer. To fill the hours, she had been embroidering a length of silk. It sat in a basket beside the only chair in the room. Reaching down, she picked it up and looked it over. The stitches were delicate and precise, just as Septa Mordane had taught her, and depicted the snarling face of a direwolf. She had once hoped to have it adorn a bodice, but she knew now that she never could.

Anger and sorrow roiled in her belly as she traced the wolf’s muzzle. It was a meaningless sigil now; there was nothing left of House Stark. Ripping the silk from the wooden frame, she went to the hearth and held it out to the flames. Before she could drop it, though, there was a knock at the door. A moment later, Sandor Clegane strode across the threshold.

He was in full plate armor, his longsword at his waist. The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung over his shoulders. As he set eyes on Sansa, her arm still extended toward the fire, his brows knit.

“What are you doing, girl?”

Sansa, unsure of how to explain, said nothing.

Clegane strode over to her and grasped the end of the silk. Sansa relinquished it without protest.

“You’ve been at this for a month,” he said. “Why burn it?”

She looked up at him, confused. He had noticed her work? “I…it’s not suitable,” she said. “I could never wear it.”

“Then don’t,” Clegane growled. “Keep it for yourself.”

Sansa shook her head. “Why? My family is gone.”

“You live still.”

“But the Stark name will not,” she said. “Even if I bear sons someday, their name will be that of my husband. The Starks are dead.”

Clegane grunted, unable to contradict her. He looked down at the embroidery, his calloused thumb rasping against the silk. “It’s a waste to burn it.”

“I can do another,” Sansa said. “Something…different. I have time enough.”

“Fine,” he said, holding the silk out to her. “Do what you want.”

She took it, touching the embroidery as he had. “It looks like a lady’s favor for her chosen knight,” she said, half to herself. She almost laughed. It was so foolish. She would once have blushed prettily as she gave just such a token to a man she thought handsome and gallant, but now she could never imagine it. To have a champion in a tourney meant almost nothing to her any longer. It was just another pretty lie she had believed as a girl.

“Give it to me,” Clegane rasped, holding out his hand.

“What?” asked Sansa.

“You want someone to ride for you,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“I didn’t mean that…not exactly,” she said. “I don’t need—”

He frowned down at her. “Just give it to me, little bird.”

She handed it back to him. Folding it twice, he tucked it into his gauntlet.

“Let’s go get this over with,” he said.

She nodded and followed him out of her room.

 

<<< >>>

 

He delivered her to the dais on which the king and his household were seated to watch the joust. Where she once would have been at Joffrey’s side, she now kept as far from him as she could. As she settled herself at the far end of the dais, she could not help but recall the last time she had been at the tourney grounds. She had been both overwhelmed and enchanted with the colors and sounds of combat. The glinting armor and the splitting of lances had been exhilarating. Her father and Arya had been with her then.

As she looked out over the field now, though, everything was muted. She saw the truth of the tourney: the battered armor, the piles of horse shit, the shaking hands of the men who lost their bouts. There was no romance, no allure, only weary men and green boys who played at warfare.

The first few bouts did little to catch her eye. She did not gasp when one man was unhorsed, his arm breaking beneath him as he fell. His fine red cloak was besmirched with filth as he was helped to his feet and led from the field by his squires. He had been felled by Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. The royal household had cheered as he saluted the king. Sansa applauded out of obligation rather than admiration.

However, when the next white cloak appeared on the field, she gave him her full attention. Sandor Clegane was astride his massive black charger, Stranger. He wore his hound helm, but no gorget to protect his throat from the breaking lances. That was bold, almost careless. Had Sansa asked him why he left it off, she was certain he would give a dismissive answer, saying that it rubbed at his neck or kept him from lowering his gaze properly during the charge. He had made it clear to her more than once that he wasn’t afraid of injury.

“What difference is another scar going to make?” he said to her once, sneering. “You think it’s going to ruin my pretty face?”

His opponent in the joust was a smallish man atop a leggy bay mare. His armor was older, but well kept. It was likely he had fought in many tourneys before this one. He would be capable despite his size. He spurred his horse on first, but Clegane was not far behind him.

Stranger’s long strides ate up the ground, sending dirt flying up behind him. Sansa pressed her lips together, holding her breath as she waited for wood to meet steel. They struck at nearly the same time, destroying both lances. Slowing their horses at opposite ends of the field, they tossed the broken weapons aside and took up new ones.

The second time, Clegane was the first to charge. The other knight paid for it. The tip of his lance glanced off of Clegane’s shoulder, remaining whole. Clegane’s, though, hit him hard in the chest. With only one ride left, Sandor had the advantage. The small knight prepared himself well, but was bested once again. Raising his lance to Clegane, he accepted defeat.

The same went for Clegane’s next opponents as well. He outrode them all, earning him cheers from both the royal household and the commons alike. Sansa remained in her seat, but she smiled and clapped with each victory.

When, at last, the final bout was about to begin, Sandor and Stranger stood at one end of the field and Balon Swann at the other. Both raised their lances to the king before the charge. Joffrey stood and bid them ride.

Their lances broke at the same time in the first charge, the resounding crack making Sansa wince. She wondered if Clegane’s ribs would be bruised after a day of taking such hits. In the second round, Swann had the upper hand and broke his lance hard. Sandor recovered in the third ride, though, nearly unseating Ser Balon. By the fifth ride, they were tied in lances broken once again.

As they had charged, Sansa had moved to the edge of her seat, her hands clasped tight in her lap. She knew that winning a tourney mattered little to Clegane, but some part of her wondered if he was riding hard because he thought it mattered to her. When it began, it hadn’t, but as she watched Clegane fell one man after another, she began to feel the ghost of the thrill she had had at the Hand’s Tourney so many years ago. She wanted him—her unexpected champion—to win.

As the sixth charge began, she watched, wide-eyed and feeling her heart jump. When Sandor’s lance collided with Swann’s breastplate, Ser Balon was whipped back against his horse’s rump. The startled beast kicked up its back legs, throwing Swann to the ground.

Cheers erupted from the onlookers. Sansa herself shot to her feet, a wide grin on her face. Clegane dropped the butt of his broken lance and trotted Stranger up to the center of the dais, where Joffrey was standing, looking smug.

“Well done, Dog,” he said when Clegane removed his helm. “I didn’t know you still had it in you.”

Sandor said nothing, simply inclined his head.

“As the victor,” said Joffrey, “you’ll have the honor of sitting at my side at table tonight. And with you, you’ll bring the Queen of Love and Beauty.” He gestured to one of the lesser lords that stood near him. The man presented him with a coronet of yellow roses. “Take it, Dog, and name her.”

Margaery Tyrell, the king’s betrothed, raised her chin and smiled, preparing to be chosen. It was to be expected, after all. Taking the crown, Clegane eyed her for a moment, but then reined Stranger away and trotted down to the end of the dais. He stopped before Sansa.

“Come here, girl,” he said, gruff, “and take this.”

She could hear the murmurs from the others on the dais, but she disregarded them as she went to the railing. Sandor tapped Stranger’s side with his heel so that the horse sidestepped closer to her. She leaned toward him and he set the crown gently onto her head. As he moved his hands away, she saw a bit of gray silk at the edge of his gauntlet. She smiled at him as she drew back. To her surprise, the good side of his mouth turned up in return.

 

 <<< >>>

 

The heat of the banquet hall was stifling as Sansa sat at table. She was picking at her suckling pig, keeping her eyes cast down. As Queen of Love and Beauty, she was seated at the tourney champion’s right hand. Sandor Clegane, who had exchanged his armor for a plain black tunic belted at the waist, had been quiet throughout the meal. He had eaten nearly all that was on his plate, but his wine had barely been touched.

Joffrey, however, had already had more than his share and was loudly recounting a tale of his prowess in the mounted hunt. Sansa doubted even half of it was true.

“When the hounds caught up with the beast,” he said, “they slowed it just enough for my spear.”

“It was very well done, too, dearest,” said Margaery, patting his arm. She was smiling, Sansa saw, but her eyes were hard and disapproving.

“Speaking of hounds,” Joffrey said, wine spilling from his cup as he turned to Sandor. “Isn’t it fitting these two dogs kept company today? My Hound and his wolf bitch.”

Sansa kept her face impassive, albeit barely. Though the crown of roses on her head was light, she felt as if it was made of lead. She had once had a girlish dream of being named Queen of Love and Beauty, but there was little joy in it just then. She wondered once again what had possessed Sandor Clegane to slight the future queen in favor of her.

“What a pair they make, don’t you think?” Joffrey said to Margaery.

“Indeed,” she replied. “They look very…distinctive together.”

Joffrey roared with laughter. “Distinctive? I’d wager a thousand gold dragons you’d never see a more laughable match.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Clegane’s hand curl into a fist. She could all but feel the tension of fury kept in check. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. He looked down at her fingers and then up to her face. She blinked at him, willing him to stay calm. He swallowed heavily, but she felt the muscles of his arm relax.

“Dogs and wolves,” Joffrey said, rubbing at his chin. “The kennel master says that the best hunting hounds have a little wolf left in their blood, but most of the wildness has to be bred out before they’re worth anything.” He narrowed his eyes, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “This wolf here is the last of her kind, and I’d say just a little too wild. How better to temper that than to breed it out?”

Sansa felt her stomach drop out, dread snaking down her spine.

“Mix her blood with a common dog’s and maybe they’ll whelp something worthy,” said Joffrey, swaying as he got to his feet. “Dog, you’ve won a tourney today and should have the champion’s purse, but I think I can offer something better: a pretty wolf to take to your bed.”

“My dear,” said Margaery, reaching for his hand, “I don’t think this—”

He shook her off, proclaiming, “A fortnight hence, Dog, you’ll wed her.”


	2. The Feast of the Maiden

**The Feast of the Maiden**

Sansa’s wedding did not fall on the Maiden’s feast day by mistake. Joffrey had ordered it. Scornful, he had laughed at the irony. She would give away her maidenhood on the day innocence was celebrated. A year ago she would have wept at the prospect, but it made little matter to her now. It would change nothing. Sandor Clegane would still be the one awaiting her in the sept.

That, too, would once have made her weep, but instead she accepted it with a certain numbness of spirit. Clegane was no worse, she reasoned, than the two men who had come before. She had first been intended for Joffrey, and then for Tyrion Lannister. The latter was repulsive in his way, yet Sansa would gladly have taken him over his monstrous nephew. Clegane was no more handsome than the Imp, but his scars had become less dreadful to her. Though they were as gruesome as they had always been, she had grown used to them. She knew the crags and furrows that his hair could not hide. She had even considered what they might feel like under her fingers. Perhaps now she would know.

As she sat at the edge of her bed, she wondered where he was. She had spent most of the days since the marriage had been arranged in her chambers. She had no visitors save for the maids that came to bring her meals and help her dress. She had seen neither hide nor hair of her betrothed, and had begun to feel strangely bereft of his presence. Coarse as he was, his company was familiar and brought her an unusual solace. They didn’t often converse as he stood guard over her as she knelt in the godswood or walked the battlements of the Red Keep, and she felt no compulsion to break the silence as she might have with anyone else. She was content simply to have him near, a reminder that she was not entirely alone.

She had intended to speak to him after the tourney feast, though she had not been certain what she would say. She wished to know what he thought of taking her to wife; if it was a burden or a boon. They had never spoken of marriage. As a part of the Kingsguard, he must never have expected to wed. The guardsmen gave up their titles and lands when they donned the white cloak. Jamie Lannister had been released from his oath when he returned to King’s Landing without his sword hand, but Sansa had never heard of a knight leaving the king’s service in order to marry.

Had Clegane considered taking a wife before one had been foisted upon him, she wondered. She doubted the answer would be forthcoming unless she asked him outright. Even then, he could dismiss her and refuse to answer. She hoped he would not, since secrets bred only animosity between husbands and wives, or so she had been told. He didn’t lie to her, but were there things he wouldn’t tell?

She had nothing to hide anymore. Her soul had been laid bare when her family was slaughtered. She masked her grief when she was at court, but it was no secret that she suffered. Joffrey delighted in it, gloating about the demise of the wolves. Now he would see the last of them married off to his Hound as castigation.

But was it truly a punishment? Sansa was not entirely certain. Clegane had always been harsh with her, forthright to the point of callousness, but he had never hurt her or been deliberately cruel. He had clothed her in his cloak when Joffrey had stripped her. He made sure she ate and got fresh air. He had offered to take her away, to keep her safe from the piercing claws of the lions. He had carried her favor in the tourney and crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. He was good to her, and she trusted him. Marriages had been built on less.

Getting to her feet, she ran her hands over her gown. It was the most presentable one she owned: blue silk with long sleeves and a deep neckline. She had been sixteen when she had first worn it, and it had exposed more of her than she was accustomed to. Her friends at court had been teasing her that she still dressed like a modest a maid of twelve. She had resolved then not to look like a little girl any longer. Seventeen now, she was glad for the cut of the gown. She would not appear girlish on the day she was to be made a woman.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said. The face of the septa who entered was unfamiliar to her.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” she said, inclining her head. “I’ve come to bring you to the sept.”

Sansa swallowed, but nodded. Her legs felt heavy as she followed the septa out into the passage. “Will the king be in attendance?” she asked as they made their way down the spiral staircase.

“No, my lady, but he has sent the queen and her retinue in his stead.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Facing Joffrey’s smirks and snickers would have been insufferable. The queen, who had tried to put a stop to the wedding before her husband had decreed it, would, with hope, look on in silence. For that Sansa would be grateful. If she was to marry before a score of strangers, her only desire was for them to do their duty as witnesses and keep their counsel.

It was not a long journey to the Red Keep’s sept. Sansa was glad that she would not be forced to marry in the Great Sept of Baelor, as she had feared. She had no desire to be made a spectacle of as she traveled there. She wanted no bells rung in honor of her union. The ceremony would be conducted quietly and with no fanfare.

Sansa could remember the days she spent with her mother talking of the wedding she would someday have. She had fancied riding to the sept with all her family around her. The commons would cheer and toss flowers onto the street before her. She would smile at them, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Her intended would be awaiting her at the altar in the sept. He would be handsome in his finery, and his hand would be warm as she slid hers into it. The feast to follow would be grand. Bards would sing love ballads for her and her new husband. It would be a day-long celebration befitting the daughter of a noble house.

Those were dreams of the past, however. Today, she would simply pass into the sept, make a short walk to where the septon and her betrothed waited and have done with the vows. Then they would retire to whatever chambers they would now share and have done with rest.

The prospect of lying with her husband had always been the specter that hung over the joy of a wedding day. It was not necessarily something that frightened her—as she had been told many times that there was pleasure to be had in the marriage bed—but she could not deny that her stomach clenched when she thought of stripping bare and presenting herself to a man. She had not illusions about her the beauty of her countenance, but she could not help but worry that he would not find her body pleasing.

Sandor Clegane rarely said anything about her appearance. He had called her pretty before, but he had given her no reason to believe he found her desirable. And didn’t a man need to desire his wife in order to bed her? If he did not, it would still be his duty to consummate the marriage. It was hers, after all, to give herself to him. They would not be properly wed until her maiden’s blood stained the sheets of their bed.

As she approached the open doors of the sept, she forced those thoughts from her mind. She would contend with the bedding when it came time for it. In that moment, she had to give all of her attention to the queen, who stood at the threshold.

“Sansa, dear,” Margaery said, taking her hand. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa, dropping a curtsey. “It is an honor to have you in attendance on this occasion.”

The queen’s expression was tinged with pity. “Yes, of course.” She offered a wan smile. “Come, I’ll walk you to him.”

“I thank you, no,” Sansa said. “I’ll go alone.”

“As you wish,” said Margaery. Giving Sansa’s arm a last squeeze, she made her way into the wings of the sept where her ladies waited.

Taking a breath, Sansa turned toward the altar. A stout septon waited there, dwarfed by the man who stood before him. Sandor Clegane was garbed in black breeches and a tunic of slate gray. A yellow cloak embroidered with the hounds of his house hung over his shoulders. All of his clothes looked new, as if they had just been made. His dark hair was clean and combed over the scarred side of his face.

Sansa did not tarry on her way to him. She did not go too quickly, but neither did she drag her feet as she might have if she were on her father’s arm. As she drew close, she could see the tension in Clegane’s frame. She watched the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed. He, too, was uneasy. At least they shared that. Moving until she stood beside him, she offered her hand. Her fingers looked narrow and frail in his wide grip, but she was grateful for the steadiness he provided.

“My lords and ladies,” said the septon, raising his arms, “we have come together in the sight of the Seven to join this man and this woman. Though today we raise our highest praises to the Maiden, each of our gods looks down and smiles upon this union.”

Sansa barely heard the rest of his invocation or the chanted verses that came after it. Her hearing was deadened, muffling the voice of the septon. Her limbs were numb and leaden. The only part of her that she could properly feel was the hand that rested in Clegane’s. When his fingers tightened around hers, she glanced up at him. He met her gaze as he drew his hand away so that he could lift it to the clasp of his cloak.

“I offer you the protection of my house,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “that of my name and of my body.” Taking the cloak from his shoulders, he spread it over Sansa’s. It was too long and pooled at her feet. “With this, I pledge myself as your lord and husband.”

The cloak was the second he had given her. The first, white and stained with blood, was folded in the chest at the foot of her bed. He had not meant for her to keep it, she was sure, and it certainly had not hung with the weight of the bridal cloak she now wore.

When Clegane fastened it around her neck, she finally released the breath she had been holding. Turning her face up to him, she said, “And I pledge myself to you as your lady and wife.”

“Let the Seven bless this union,” said the septon. When neither Sansa nor Clegane moved to embrace, he added, “You kiss her now,” under his breath.

Sansa turned toward Clegane, her memory flashing back to the night when he had all but kissed her, the night the Blackwater burned. He had been drunker than she had ever seen him. She wondered if he even remembered. The flash of recognition in his eyes told her that he did. Lowering her gaze to his lips, she wondered how they would feel against hers. Joffrey’s lips had been hard and demanding, though she had thought the kiss terribly romantic then. But, Clegane did not stoop to kiss her mouth. He lifted her hand and lightly brushed his lips over the knuckles.

Satisfied, the septon nodded and proclaimed, “I present Lord and Lady Clegane.”

A short burst of applause followed them as Sandor strode out of the hall, all but forcing Sansa to run to keep up with him.

“Please,” she managed to say as they crossed from the sept into the castle proper. “Please slow down. I’m going to fall.” Tripping over her skirts and the cloak that trailed behind her, she pitched forward. A heavy arm encircled her waist, preventing her from slamming painfully into the flagstones. Without a moment’s pause, she was lifted off of her feet and into Clegane’s arms.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but then she heard someone behind them suggesting a bedding. Her eyes wide, she hid her face in Clegane’s shoulder. The shame of that would be unbearable.

He was silent and swift as he carried her up into her tower room. For a moment she thought he might throw her straight onto the bed, but instead he set her down just beyond the threshold and slammed the door shut behind them.

Sansa drew in a breath, trying to banish the giddiness that was making her head reel. Clegane looked no more settled as he went to the sideboard, on which a plate of cheese fruit had been laid, and poured a cup of wine. Striding over, he pushed it into her hands.

“Drink,” he said.

She looked down at the dark wine. She did not want it, but she did as he told her and drank. It would steady her nerves. That would be needed for what was to come. She took another sip and then held the cup out to him.

“Will you have some?”

He shook his head, going instead to the hearth and resting his arm on the mantle. He said nothing for some time, seemingly content to watch the flames licking up.

Sansa stood just as still, though she drank a little more wine. Languidness was beginning to take hold of her. She was not at ease—far from it—but her hands were no longer shaking. When her cup was empty, she stepped toward the sideboard to refill it. The yellow cloak dragged on the floor in her wake.

"Take that off,” Clegane said. “You’ll just fall over it again.”

Sansa glanced at him. He was facing her again.

Setting down her cup, she moved to release the clasp at her throat. Unwilling to drop the cloak carelessly to the floor, she slid it from her shoulders and laid it over the back of a chair.

Turning to Clegane, she asked, “And the rest, too?” He narrowed his eyes, but she could feel him looking her over. She flushed. “Or do you not…want me?”

“Not want you?” he growled, taking a step toward her. “A man would have to be blind and cockless to not want you.”

Sansa’s mouth opened in surprise.

Clegane raised a brow. “Does that frighten you, girl? Being wanted?”

“No,” she said.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not. I know what comes next. I’m…prepared.”

He stepped slightly closer, so that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “Do you want it?”

“Do I have a choice? The king will expect to see the sheets come the marrow.”

Drawing the knife from his belt, he spun the tip against the pad of his thumb. A spot of red welled there. “If it’s a bloodstain he wants, then it’s easy enough to give him one. He’d never know the difference.”

Sansa’s brows knit. He was giving her a way out, offering to spare her from lying with him. Why? He had made it plain that he wanted her, and she was his to take.

“It would be a lie,” she said. “You cannot abide liars.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “No.”

“Then we have a duty to perform.” Going to the laces of her gown, she tugged the knot free.

Clegane stood unmoving, watching her as she unlaced her bodice. Her fingers were numb, making it difficult, but she managed. At last, the brocaded silk parted, allowing her to shuck it off her shoulders. The gown fell at her feet, leaving her in only her shift. It was sheer and did little to hide the shape of her body beneath it. Thankful for the courage the wine lent her, she fisted the linen in her hands and lifted it over her head.

Despite the fire, there was a chill in the room. The peaks of Sansa’s breasts pebbled at the cold. She wanted nothing more than the cover herself with her hands, to hide from Clegane’s hard, gray stare. But she tempered the urge and forced her eyes up to meet his. They were dark with what she could only assume was desire. Beneath that, though, there was uncertainty. It was the same hesitancy she had seen when the septon had bid him kiss her.

When he made no move to touch her, she reached an unsteady hand out to brush the sleeve of his shirt. “Shall I help you undress, my lord?”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, almost gently.

“I’m sorry—”

“And don’t make your pretty apologies, either.” He glowered for a moment, but then his expression softened. “I have a name, girl. Use it.”

Sansa nodded mutely, which appeared to satisfy him.

“Go lie down, little bird,” he said. “Under the furs before you freeze.”

She did as she was bid, finding refuge in the warm coverlet. She did not watch as he began to undress. She half expected him to mock her for her cowardice, but he remained silent. By the time she felt the weight of him on the mattress, she had removed all the pins from her hair. It hung loose in auburn waves.

When she looked at Clegane again, he was sitting at the edge of the bed with his back to her. His hands rested on his bare thighs. Sansa waited for him to turn, but he did not. He seemed frozen there, save for the movement of his chest as he breathed. She could see the subtle movement of the muscles beneath his skin as he clenched his fists and then released them.

Tentatively, she sat up and touched a hand to his shoulder. He tensed under her fingers. She considered pulling back, but instead tugged lightly to bring him to her. Pressing a hand into the mattress beside him, he turned.

Taking her hand from his shoulder, Sansa raised it to his cheek. Taking a deep breath, she leaned in toward him.

“No,” he said, drawing away.

“You do not want a kiss?” she asked.

“Not now.”

“Then what should I…”

“Lie down,” he said. “And breathe.”

She eased herself back until her head rested against the pillows. When she was settled, Clegane lifted his side of the coverlet and slid his legs beneath it. Sansa was certain it was not to keep the cold at bay, however. She could feel his heat already. Did he wish to hide his body just as she had hers? The thought was foolish, perhaps, but it gave her some comfort. Neither of them were sure how to behave.

Chewing her lip, Sansa looked over what she could see of him. She was struck once again by his size. He was broad, easily taking up half the bed, and tall. His feet nearly hung off the edge of the mattress. His arms were corded with muscle and dusted with hair the same dark color as that on his chest. The skin beneath was remarkably unmarred by scars, though a jagged line did cut across his shoulder. Curious, Sansa reached out and traced it with her fingertips.

“A lance,” he said. “The tip broke on the armor, but a splinter found a seam and went deep.”

She could only imagine the agony of such a wound. “When did it happen?”

“When I was a green boy. My first or second tourney.”

“It didn’t stop you from riding in others.”

“No, little bird. It didn’t.” He eyed her. “Did you stop sewing when you pricked your finger with the needle?”

“A needle is not a lace,” she said.

He shrugged. “There’s worse pain.”

Sansa’s gaze went to the scarred side of his face. He caught her at it and frowned. He looked down so that his hair fell over the worst of the scars. Sansa thought to push it back to show him that she was not afraid, but she thought the better of it. She was not going to expose what he wished to mask. Instead, she took his hand and pressed a brief kiss to it. Gently and not without fear, she guided his fingers to her breast.

His skin was warm as he cupped her. The callouses on his palm scratched against her nipple, bringing it up hard. Taking a deep breath, Sansa closed her eyes. Clegane caressed her more confidently then, moving from her chest to her belly. She found that his touch was not unpleasant, just foreign.

Then she felt a sudden pressure between her legs. She gave a short cry of surprise when she realized it was his hand. She opened her eyes wide.

“Easy,” he murmured as he rolled onto to his side to bring himself closer to her. He moved his other hand to her stomach and began to make small circles across the skin. It tickled for a moment before Sansa released some of the tension in her muscles. As she did, he began to move his other hand in the same small circles, but at the juncture of her thighs.

She had discovered many years ago that a few quick strokes of her fingers there at night could send her head spinning into a sound sleep. Septa Mordane had always spoken of the perversity of such actions, and as a good girl, Sansa had tried not to make a habit of it. Yet, there had been some nights that she had slickened her fingers and sought release. She and her maids had giggled about the pleasures a husband could give his wife, but she had not thought he would know to touch her as Clegane was now.

“You’re slippery as water weed, girl,” he rasped.

“Is that…all right?” she asked, anxious.

He stilled, looking down at her.

“What—” she started.

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off. “It’s all right. Now close your eyes, little bird, and stop chirping.”

Sansa obeyed, and after a moment, she allowed him to push her thighs a little wider apart. The circles resumed, making her shudder. She felt his hand on her breast again, the pad of his thumb brushing the nipple lightly in time with each circle.

Sansa bit her lip between her teeth to keep from making any sound, as she always had in the silence of her bedchamber. Clegane had bid her be quiet as well. As her heart began to beat deeper and quicker, though, she could hardly contain the small sounds coming from her throat.

“Sing now,” she heard him say as her hips bucked up into his hand.

Sansa’s muddled thoughts could not make sense of his command. How could she sing when was she was half mad with— Words failed her as a wave of pleasure broke over her. She heard a cry, almost one of anguish, as her vision darkened. It took a few moments for her to realize that it had been her voice echoing around the chamber.

“Seven hells,” Clegane cursed.

Sansa’s eyes popped open, and she looked at him in confusion. His hand had stilled, though it still rested between her thighs.

“Liked that, did you?” he asked. His fingers twitched, making Sansa jump. “Well, there’s no one in this castle that can say I didn’t please you. They might have heard that down in Flea Bottom.”

Sansa felt her cheeks start to burn. “You said I should sing,” she mumbled, too ashamed to look at him.

“And you will again,” he said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. Slowly, he moved his fingertips down until the tip of the middle one slid inside her. She tensed immediately at the intrusion.

“You know it’s going to hurt at first,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sansa.

Clegane shifted, the ropes that held the mattress groaning, until he was poised above her. She could feel him hard against her thigh. His fingers moved in gentling circles on her shoulder. A few moments passed, but he did not move.

Taking in a steadying breath, Sansa traced a finger along his jaw. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “It’s all right to hurt me like this...Sandor.”

A sigh of warm breath tickled her ear just before he entered her. She bit her cheek hard as the pain set in, but managed not make a sound. She winced as Sandor drew out and then slid in again.

He groaned, going still. When Sansa lifted her head to ask what was wrong, he said, “You’re so tight, girl. So damned tight and wet…hot…” He trailed off, his hips thrusting hard and fast.

Sansa dug her fingernails into his upper arms, grinding her teeth. The muscles beneath her hands tightened, and his thrusts slowed again. As he moved in and out of her, he continued to curse quietly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sansa listened to words that should have made her blush, concentrating on his voice rather than the fullness of him inside her.

“Fucking…bloody…hells,” Sandor panted with each pump of his hips.

Sansa would repeat each word in her head as he said it to keep her own mind busy. Yet, even as she sought to distract herself from the pain, she found that it was dissipating. Each time she felt him sliding against her, there was a familiar tingling.

Her hands moved from his upper arms to his shoulders and down his back. Holding tight against him, she lifted herself to meet him as he drove into her. She could feel the coil of pleasure in her gut, building slowly.

“I can’t…” Sandor gasped, his pace becoming frantic. “I can’t…”

That next thrust sent Sansa over the edge into ecstasy once more.

“Seven hells!” they both cried as he spilled himself into her.

With a deep groan, his curses trailed off. His hips stilled, and he pressed his face into the pillows. Sansa lay beneath him, unsure what came next. She listened to Sandor’s heart as it slowed. It beat in time with her own.

When he did move away from her, it was to roll onto on his back. Sansa, on her back as well, watched him out of the corner of her eye. He lay still, his eyes open, but fixed on the canopy above the bed.

In the silence, Sansa’s head began to fill with questions. She wanted to know if she had pleased him, if she had done all that was required of her. Did he wish her to speak or remain quiet? Everything about this day was new to her, and disconcerting. She was not displeased, though, or frightened. He had not used her badly. The pain did not come by any fault of his. All maidens endured it.

At that, she paused. She was not a maiden. At last, she was a woman grown and claimed by her husband. She was Sansa Stark no longer. She was a Clegane now. Her eyes stung, though not because of her lot in marriage. The tears were for the name she left behind. There were no more Starks, and there would be no more.

“You should sleep, girl,” Sandor said. “I wouldn’t trouble you again tonight.”

“I’m not troubled,” she said.

He turned slowly to her. “Then you liked it.” It was not spoken as a question, but it was.

“I’m not certain I could say that…yet.” Though she could feel the heat in her cheeks, she looked him in the eye and said, “I believe I’ll have to try it again before I can render judgment.”

She could feel his laughter reverberating through him before it burst free.

“Little bird,” he said, “we can try as many times as you like. But for now…” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. “Sleep. You’ve some healing to do.”

“I’m not sure that I can sleep,” she said, earnest.

He sighed. “Try. If you’re still awake when the candle’s burned down by half, wake me.”

Sansa nodded and put her head down on the pillow. After Sandor had closed his eyes, hers remained open. She watched the flame of the candle on the bedside table flicker for a time, but before long her gaze fell on her sleeping husband.

The good side of his face was toward her, lax in repose. She studied the lines of his nose and jaw, the shadowed wells of his eyes. He was not the comely man she had dreamed of, but he had done well by her on this, their first night together. And now as she lay beside him, she did not find his presence unpleasant. She was glad for his warmth and for the smell of warm saddle leather that seemed to cling to him. It would take time to accustom herself to sharing her bed, but as she settled her head on the soft place between his shoulder and chest, she found that she could, in fact, sleep soundly.


	3. The Feast of the Smith

**The Feast of the Smith**

When Sansa woke the next morning, Sandor was gone. Had she not felt stiff and a little sore, she might have thought she dreamed all that had transpired in the night. As she turned back the coverlet and slipped out of bed, she saw a spot of red on the sheet below, proof that she was a woman wedded and bedded. She would have to call for the maid to change the linens before Sandor returned.

Frowning, she considered how their domestic arrangement might go. Would he join her in residence or would she be expected to leave the Red Keep now that she was no longer the king’s ward? She did not wish to remain in the castle, but she knew that Sandor had no place of his own to take her to. As she understood it, he had quarters in the barracks of the Kingsguard, and that was no place for a man and his wife. She would have to ask him when he came back to see her, whenever that might be.

Pouring cool water into the ewer by the fire, she washed her face, under her arms, and between her legs. The flesh was tender there, but it did not pain her. Once she was clean, she went to her wardrobe and chose a gown for the day. She did not bother to send for a maid to dress her, but managed on her own.

Once she was ready, she went into her solar. There she found her breakfast laid out. There was fruit and cheese and a pot of warm tea. Her stomach rumbled as she sat down at the small table and helped herself to the food. She had hoped that there might be a note from Sandor, but he had left no word.

Slowly chewing a piece of bread, Sansa resigned herself to spending yet another day in her room working at her embroidery. She had begun a new piece: three black dogs on a yellow field that would adorn a gown, if she ever had any more made. She wondered in passing at Sandor’s wealth. As a man of the Kingsguard, he had forsaken all titles and coin that they entailed. However, if he was now released, did that make him heir to the holdings that belonged to his father? Gregor, the eldest son, had long ago disappeared, leaving what he was meant to inherit to the younger brother.

When she had had her fill of food, Sansa left the rest and went to the chair by the fire to take up her embroidery. She had only just finished the head of the first hound, but if she worked throughout the day she would easily be able to complete the rest of it.

However, she had not put in more than ten stitches when the door crashed open and her husband stalked inside.

“We won’t stay in this fucking city another day,” Sandor growled, his face twisted with fury.

Sansa’s fingers tightened around the edges of the wooden frame that held her embroidery, but she said nothing. She waited for him to continue.

“I don’t have to show that bloody _boy_ anything,” he said. “He’s got no fucking right.”

“The king?” Sansa asked quietly.

“Yes, dammit,” Sandor snapped.

“What does he want?”

“To see your thrice-blasted sheets.”

Sansa felt heat in her cheeks. “That’s not such an unreasonable request. It’s custom—”

“To hell with that,” he said. “He’ll have to be satisfied with my word.”

“I can go before him as well,” she said. “To attest to the consummation.”

Sandor crossed the distance between them and took her by the arm. “You won’t. We’re leaving.”

“Now?”

“Yes, girl.”

“Where will we go?” she asked, her heart lifting a small bit at the idea of putting King’s Landing behind her.

“To the Westerlands.”

“Lannister lands?”

Sandor flashed her a macabre grin. “Yes. Your banner is pledged to the lions now, _Lady Clegane_.”

Sansa knew he meant it derisively, but instead of hanging her head low, she raised her eyes to his and said, “As you wish, my lord husband.” She expected him to snarl at her, to mock her courtesies, but instead his brow furrowed as he looked at her in silence, the good side of his mouth twitching.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Sansa felt his gaze on her face, bringing up a blush. Still, she willed herself not to look away. “As you wish.”

His hand at her elbow tightened. “Not that part.”

“My lord husband,” she breathed as his hand slid up her shoulder to her neck.

Sandor’s thumb brushed her chin. “I’ve sent word to Clegane Keep that we’re coming. It’s not a fine castle like this one or Winterfell, but it’s yours to do with as you will.”

"Is it a long journey?” she asked.

“A sennight’s time if we ride swiftly,” he replied.

“Then we’d best make haste.” She glanced back at the door to her bedchamber. “I don’t have very much to take. Just a few gowns…”

“Leave them,” Sandor said. “You’ll have new things when we arrive.”

“Thank you. That is very generous.”

He huffed dismissively. “I may not be a high lord, little bird, but I’m not a bloody pauper.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.

“I know,” he sighed, taking a step back. He rubbed his forehead. “Seven hells.”

He was frustrated, Sansa could tell, but not with her. Just as she did not know how to act as a married woman, Sandor hadn’t the first idea about how to behave as a husband. Reaching out and taking his hand, she gave him a small smile. “I do not require much, I promise. I do not expect to be spoiled and catered to. I’m sure I will be perfectly content at Clegane Keep.”

He looked down at their joined hands, his brows drawing together. “I haven’t been there in fifteen years. The bloody place could be falling down.”

“Then we shall have to rebuild it,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

With a curt nod, he said, “Pack your things, little bird. We ride at midday.”

 

<<< >>>

           

The journey to the Westerlands took just over a sennight. Though they have traveled easily for the first two days, it had rained for the next two, forcing them to slow their horses to a walk. Sandor had bought a young gelding for Sansa to ride. He was plain, but good tempered. He stood several hands shorter that Sandor’s massive destrier, Stranger.

They had spent their nights at inns along the road. Though they shared a room and a bed, they had done no more than sleep. The first night Sansa had undressed completely, expecting him to take her again, but he had held out her shift and told her it was “too bloody cold” to sleep bare. It was chilly in their room, but once she was curled up beside him beneath the coverlet, it was perfectly comfortable.

She had thought to be relieved that he had not wanted to lie with her, but she could not help but wonder if she had done something to displease him on their wedding night. She disliked that notion very much. She had been afraid then, but she knew he had been as careful as he could. When he had taken her, it had hurt, but as it had gone on, the pain had lessened. By the time he had shuddered and spilled his seed, she had begun to like the way it felt.

She wondered if it would feel just as good a second time. She found that she wanted to know. However, she was often so tired by the end of a day of riding that she could not keep her eyes open once she had lain down beside him.

It was on the evening of the ninth day of their journey that they trotted their mounts through the gates of Clegane Keep. Sandor had spoken true; it was far smaller than Winterfell. There was a central tower at its center with short wings on either side. There were stables just within the walls, though they could have housed only twenty horses at most.

There were a few people about, some pushing wheelbarrows and others carrying various burdens. All of them looked up, many stopping completely, when Sansa and Sandor rode into the muddy courtyard.

“You,” Sandor barked at a boy who carried two buckets on a yolk over his shoulders, “bring a groom.”

“I am one, my lord,” he replied, his voice shaking a little.

“Then take these horses and see them bathed and brushed down.”

Dropping the buckets, the boy said, “Yes, my lord,” as he hastened over and reached for Stranger’s reins. The stallion snorted and popped up on his hind legs, but Sandor checked him with a tug on the bit and a growled admonishment. The young groom swallowed nervously, but took hold of Stranger without complaint.

Sandor frowned as his boots sank into the mud when he dismounted. Neither he nor Sansa was particularly clean, as they had not had the opportunity to properly bathe as they traveled, but standing ankle-deep in filth never pleased anyone. Sansa was certain that when she hit the ground, the damp would seep into her old boots, chilling and wetting her feet. She hoped there was a bath and a fire in the offing once they got inside.

Before she could swing her leg over her gelding’s side, though, Sandor was beside her. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off the horse’s back and into his arms. He bore her easily across the courtyard and through the tower doors.

Inside it was warm and dry. Glancing around, Sansa saw that they stood in the great hall of the keep. The lord’s seat stood across from the door. A faded banner bearing the sigil of the house hung behind it. She was surprised to see that the dining tables were not straight, as were those she had seen in the halls of the Red Keep and Winterfell, but curved to follow the lines of the round tower.

“My lord,” said a stout woman with a head of curly gray hair as she approached them from across the hall. “You have arrived at last. We are glad to see you return to this house.” She dropped a shallow curtsey. “I am Miryem, the keeper of the house.”

Sandor set Sansa down gently beside him. To Miryem, he said, “You can show my wife to her chambers, then. She is in need of a bath and food.”

“Very well, my lord,” she said. Then to Sansa, “Greetings, Lady Clegane.”

Sansa nodded graciously.

“Come, my lady,” said Miryem. “I’ll take you to your room.”

Sansa took a step, but then paused, turning back to Sandor. “Will you not come as well?” she asked.

“Later,” he replied. “Go clean up, little bird.”

           

<<< >>>

 

Sansa soaked in the big brass tub the servants had brought to her chamber until the lavender-scented water cooled. Her new room was larger than the one she had had in King’s Landing, though more sparsely furnished. Perhaps once she would have insisted on more lavish décor, but she no longer felt the need. The big bed was covered in furs and looked comfortable enough. The chairs near the hearth were plush. They would serve perfectly well.

Behind one of the faded tapestries that hung on the wall was a door adjoining her chamber to Sandor’s. As she had looked it from the bathtub, she had wondered if he would come to her when he wished to lie with her or if he would prefer that she came to him. As far as she knew, it was customary for the husband to visit his wife’s bed, but that was by no means a certainty. It would have been far simpler if they had just been given shared chambers. And, she thought, she might even prefer that.

It would be somewhat strange to sleep alone again after sharing a bed with him all the nights of their journey. She had grown used to his warmth and the way he held her to him. She found that she didn’t mind the quiet noises that he sometimes made as he dreamed or the occasional jerk of his limbs. His nearness soothed her in a way she had not expected. She would gladly sleep in his arms most nights.

“My lady,” called the keeper of the house from outside the door to Sansa’s chamber, drawing her thoughts away from matters of the marriage bed. “Are you ready to dress for dinner?”

“Yes,” she replied, rising from the chilly bathwater and reaching for the long robe that was folded on the table beside her. “Do come in.”

The door creaked as Miryem entered. “Was the bath to your liking, my lady?”

“It was. Thank you.”

She smiled and dropped a brief curtsey. “I’m glad, my lady. We do want you to have all that you need.”

“I haven’t any doubt that I will.”

“Well,” said Miryem, looking a little sheepish, “there’s the matter of a maid for you. I’m sorry to say that she’s not yet arrived.”

“Were there no maids in the keep already?”

“Scullery maids, yes, but no lady’s maids. And Lord Clegane means for you to have a proper one, not one of the girls from the village. He sent all the way to Lannisport for her, and the seamstress, too. She’s to make you a new wardrobe.”

Surprised, but grateful, Sansa said, “I will remember to thank him this evening.”

“Indeed, my lady,” said Miryem. “He’s ordered dinner served whenever you are ready.”

“He’s waiting for me?” she asked. Going to her bed, where she had laid out her only clean gown, she dropped her robe and pulled on a muslin shift. “I’d best dress quickly.”

Miryem bustled over to her side. “Let me help you, my lady. It’ll be quicker work with two sets of hands.”

The keeper of the house proved more than capable with the buttons and laces of Sansa’s gown, though she made her apologies for her lack of skill at arranging hair. Sansa dismissed it, content simply to let it down. It fell to the small of her back.

Once she was dressed, she allowed Miryem to show her back down to the great hall. Sandor was seated at the center of the table when she arrived. He, too, had bathed and exchanged his soiled traveling clothes for a pair of black breeches and a dark green tunic belted at the waist. He rose as Sansa approached. She was surprised at the formality.

“Good evening,” she said as she sat in the high-backed chair at his right hand.

He nodded to her and took his seat again. Uncertain of how to begin a conversation, Sansa remained silent as the servants brought out a dish of peppered game hens adorned with sprigs of thyme. It smelled wonderful and tasted better. Sansa said as much to Sandor.

“Then the cook is good for something,” he rumbled. “She won’t need replacing.”

Sansa raised a brow. “Had you intended to seek a new cook?”

“If it was needed. The people here have been fending for themselves since my father died. They haven’t had to serve anyone in years.”

“They’ve done quite well so far,” she said, taking another bit of succulent meat. “I’m grateful for the maid you sent for, though.”

“The damned girl is three days late in coming,” he said. “She should have been here before us. Ready for you.”

Sansa hid a smile in her wine cup. He seemed truly incensed that all had not been in order before her arrival. He had said nothing of the preparations he had made to ensure her comfort, and she admittedly had not expected them.

“I’ll be glad to see the rest of the keep soon,” she said.

“It can wait until tomorrow. You should be abed after you’ve eaten. Nine days in the saddle is hard.”

Sansa was not about to deny that.

“Do your chambers suit you?” Sandor asked “They’re meant for the lady of the house, but if you don’t care for them, there are others.”

“They’re lovely,” Sansa replied. “Thank you.”

He snorted. “I doubt anything in this bloody keep is ‘lovely,’ but you can change that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything here is old and moldering. It should be gotten rid of and replaced.” He paused to glance over at her. “If you see fit to do it.”

“You wish me to outfit the keep with new furnishings?” she asked.

He shrugged. “The place is yours to do with as you please. Don’t worry about the coin, either. I have it.”

Sansa was pleased she had not had to voice that particular concern. Instead, she simply nodded and gave him a small smile. “I will see it is well kept.”

They finished their meal in silence. It was not an uncomfortable quiet, however. Sansa was content to savor the food. She finished nearly all of it, though she did not pick the meat off the bones as Sandor did. It was not mannerly, but she was not offended. In some ways she could appreciate his roughness, as it reminded her that he did not abide by the niceties of court that she had come to loathe in King’s Landing.

Once the servants had cleared their plates, Sandor got to his feet and offered his arm. Sansa took it and followed him out of the hall. The spiral staircase that led to their chambers was not far, and they arrived quite swiftly at her door.

“I’ll send the keeper of the house up to help you prepare for bed,” he said.

It seemed that once again he intended to leave her to her own rest. Despite her exhaustion, she found that she was not yet ready to sleep.

Reaching for his hand, she said, “We need not disturb her. If you’ll help me to undress.”

He swallowed heavily, his eyes tracing her form. “If you like.”

“I do,” she said as she opened the door and drew him across the threshold.

A fire was crackling merrily in the hearth when they entered her bedchamber. Glad for its warmth, Sansa brought Sandor to the space just before it. He seemed satisfied to allow her to lead him. She felt her heart speed up as she thought of what was to come—and she did mean for them to lie together—but it was not with nerves. No, she was curious how it would feel to have him inside her again.

Turning her back to him, she moved her hair over her shoulder. “Will you see to the laces?”

A few moments passed before she felt his fingers slowly pulling the knot free and then releasing the leather laces. Once they were free, he spread the gown open so that she could slide it over her arms. She did, letting it fall around her feet. When she faced Sandor again, she did not hesitate. She reached out for his belt.

He let her undo the buckle and set the belt down on the chair nearest her. His tunic came next, though she could only lift it halfway up. He had to pull it over his head. When he had dropped it, Sansa lay her hands on his bare chest, the hair soft under her palms. He closed his eyes briefly as she brushed the flat nipples. Taking that for encouragement, she moved down to the waist of his breeches.

“Wait,” he said, his voice rough. “Let me at least take my boots off.”

She stepped back, though not too far. He sank into a chair and set to divesting himself of his boots. Putting them aside, he rose again and went to Sansa. He took a lock of her hair between his fingers, touching it gently.

She felt heaviness in her loins and her smallclothes were warm with a sudden wetness. Turning her face up, she stepped into his arms. He enfolded her, pulling her against him with no small force. Her head rested squarely in the center of his chest. He smelled of soap, but beneath it was the musk of his skin. She had grown used to the smell of him over the past days as they shared a bed on the road. She knew that she would have missed it had they slept apart that night.

“Come,” she said, quiet.

Once more, he followed her as they went to the bedside. There, she raised the skirt of her shift, pulling it up. She was nearly trapped in it as she struggled to get it over her shoulders, but then Sandor was there, his warm hands brushing her skin as he lifted it away. She stood naked before him, warmth burning in her cheeks as he looked her over.

Trailing his fingertips down her arm, he said, “Perfect.”

“You flatter me,” she said, looking down.

“No, girl. Anyone who says less is a blind man.” He said it with conviction, his eyes dark with desire. He made quick work of his breeches then, discarding them on the flagstones beneath his bare feet.

Sansa sat back onto the bed in an unspoken invitation for him to join her. He did so without hesitancy. The feather mattress sagged beneath his weight, keeping her close to him. To that she had no objections.

Lying down onto the pillows, she cupped his unmarred cheek. His mouth was hot as it closed over hers. He groaned deeply when she slid her tongue past his lips to meet his. He lay on his side next to her, his left hand pressed to her hip. She remembered clearly the feeling of his fingers between her legs and the ecstasy it had brought her. Hoping he would do it again, she parted her thighs.

He drew back from her, his brows raised. “Is there something you want, little bird?”

Licking her lips, she glanced down at his hand.

“Tell me.”

She flushed, but managed to say, “Will you…touch me? Like you did before.”

“Like this?” he asked as he slid his middle finger against her.

“Yes,” she breathed, pressing her head back into the pillow. Just before she closed her eyes, she saw the start of a wicked smile on his face.

It took even less time for her to rise to the edge of frenzy and go tumbling over it than it had the first time. Between Sandor’s caresses and his mouth at her breast, she lost herself within a few moments of his first touch.

“Seven hells, girl,” he said as she spiraled back down. “You’re sensitive. Far more than I’ve seen before.”

“And that pleases you,” she said.

“Bringing you to your peak pleases me. And being inside you.”

Her desire flared. She, too, wanted him to fill her again. She moved to draw him down to her, but paused when he shook his head slightly.

“Come here,” he said. Taking her by the shoulders, he pulled her on top of him so that she was astride his hips. She could feel him hard beneath her.

“It’s not so different from riding a horse,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. “You have a good seat in the saddle. You’ll do just fine here, too.” His hands at her waist, he lifted her up so that he could position himself under her. “Easy now. Go slowly.”

Heeding him, Sansa lowered herself onto him. The feeling was still somewhat foreign, but there was no pain.

“Gods,” he cursed as she took him in, his eyes pinched closed.

“Are you all right?” she asked, uncertain.

“ _Yes_.”

She didn’t bother to hide her pleased smile, knowing he would not see it. Biting at her bottom lip, she planted her hands on his chest and gave a tentative roll of her hips. He answered her with a groan.

“Good, girl,” he growled. “Keep on like that.”

She did as she was bid, moving faster as she got a feel for it. The sounds Sandor made were a guide, but so too were her own feelings. Him slipping into and out of her set her to tingling. She found that when she pressed herself against him, she was struck with a jolt of sensation. Leaning down closer to him, the feeling intensified, making her catch her breath. Sandor’s eyes fixed on hers as he heard it.

“Go on, little bird,” he said, cupping her breasts. “Take your pleasure again.” Heat shot through her veins as he brushed her nipples with his thumbs. The pressure at her center only intensified.

Sandor urged her on, taking her by the hips and pushing her down against him with each stroke. When she shattered, she threw her head back and cried out.

Sandor let her ride out her release with steady thrusts, but when her ragged breathing began to grow steady again, he said, “Hold tight to me.”

She came down onto his chest, her fingers tunneling into his hair. He drove up into her harder, faster. It would have been far too rough for her the first time they had lain together, but now she reveled in the feeling of him burying himself in her to the hilt. Nuzzling his neck, she whispered his name in his ear. He stammered hers in reply as his body went taut beneath her and spilled his seed.

They remained joined until their hearts slowed. There was a sheen of sweat between them, but Sansa was not bothered. She had no desire to get up and wash. She wanted only to curl up against Sandor and rest. He had the same idea it seemed, for when he finally moved away from her it was only to turn onto his side and pull her to him.

Taking the hand that he rested across her belly, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles and bid him goodnight.

“Good night, little bird,” she heard him say as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

           

<<< >>>

 

The ensuing weeks passed swiftly for Sansa. She spent several days with the dressmaker being measured and then fitted for new gowns. She explored all of Clegane Keep and made notes as to what furnishings had to be replaced and what could remain. As Sandor had said, most of the keep had been in disuse for years.

She discovered that there was a small sept in the east wing, though it was thick with dust and cobwebs. She had it cleaned and ordered candles brought to adorn the altars. She paid particular attention to the shrine of the Smith, whose feast it was that day. She had no particular celebration planned, but she disliked the notion of neglecting the god. Kneeling before his image, she prayed for the craftsmen who were working to fashion new furniture for the keep and for the maids, cooks, and stable lads who labored each day to keep the household in order.

She was fond of her new maid, Arianne, who had come from Lannisport. They were of an age and had got on well from the start. She was keen to keep Sansa’s appearance up in accordance with the fashion in the city. Sansa felt little need for it in the secluded keep, where only Sandor and the commons saw her, but she indulged Arianne because it made her happy.

Since their first night in residence, Sansa and Sandor had not spent a single night apart. Most often they kept to his bed, which was larger than hers, though they rarely required all of the space it offered, as they stayed pressed close together even as they slept.

They lay together often and well. He had taught Sansa of the many ways to love, all of which she was quickly learning to enjoy.

They ate their meals together in the great hall, but to fill the space they often told the servants to join them rather than keep to the scullery to eat. Sansa was fond of their lively conversations during dinner as they spoke to each other about the goings on of the day. Though they always treated her with deference, she considered many of them her friends.

“You’re all right here?” Sandor had asked one night as they lay side by side after making love.

“Yes,” she had replied, honest. “I am glad to be the lady of the house.”

“You do it well.”

“My mother taught me how to manage a household. I hope my efforts here would please her.”

“She’d be a fool not to be,” he grumbled.

It was perhaps not the most elegant of compliments, but she knew he meant it as one. “Thank you, Sandor,” she said. “Are you all right here as well?”

“Little bird, I’d rather burn in each one of the Seven Hells than be any place else.”

Sansa smiled and said, “As would I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm my own beta, so please forgive any small errors. I will continue to search for them.


	4. The Feast of the Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rolls up two years later with an update*

**The Feast of the Stranger**

Sandor’s skin was warm beneath her fingers as she traced their tips across his chest. It was dusted lightly with soft, dark hair and was slightly damp with sweat. She, too, was still flushed with heat from lovemaking, though time enough had passed for her heart to slow.

Of late they had grown accustomed to spending the time before they slept lying in each other’s arms and speaking quietly. They talked of all manner of things, some of more consequence than others. Often they discussed the goings on around the keep, which kept them both occupied.

Sansa had acquainted herself with many of the people, from kitchen maids to the farmers’ sons. She listened to their tales of daily labors and did what she could to provide the things they required to perform them. Though it was common work, she found that she enjoyed it far more than navigating the intrigue of court life in King’s Landing. As a young girl she would have thought it tedious, but now things were different. She relished the calm, the predictability of her days.

Yet, as she lay beside Sandor, she was deciding how to broach the subject of disturbing that tranquility with revels. She wished to hold a feast to celebrate the Stranger’s day, which was sennight hence.

Though he was perhaps the most somber of the Seven, his feast day was undoubtedly the most boisterous. It was tradition for the revelers to hide their faces behind masks, as the Stranger did beneath his hood. The faceless would then eschew all names and titles and partake in the festivities without fear, for all transgressions on the night of the feast were forgotten with the rise of the sun.

However, she had yet to ask her husband, who was not overly fond of merriment.

“If you have something to say, little bird, then say it.” Sandor was looking down at her, his hands up behind his head.

“Well,” she began, “it will soon be the Stranger’s day…”

“And you want to hold a feast.”

She met his eyes, surprised yet not surprised that he had guessed her intent so easily. “With your permission.”

He huffed. “You have leave to do as you please, girl. You know that.”

“I do,” she said, hitching a leg up over his thighs as she nestled her head into the crook of his arm. He moved to make a more comfortable pillow for her, his hand curling around her shoulder. “But I’d prefer not to do something that would displease you.”

Another dismissive noise. “If there’s good food and drink to be had, what would I have to complain about? Have your feast, girl.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. Though Sandor did not put much stock in the Seven, if he had a preferred god it would be the Stranger. She thought it would only be right to place him among the favored of the Seven in their household.

Sandor grunted noncommittally, but his grip on her tightened. “Who do you expect to have at this feast?”

Sansa had considered this carefully. In the two months they had been in residence at Clegane Keep, they had seen none of the nobles whose banners were pledged to the Lannisters. Sandor had said that if Sansa desired it, they could go to Lannisport for a few days, but she had declined. There was comfort to be found in the quiet seclusion of the keep. She visited often with the women and girls in the village. Sometimes she even lent her hands to the cook.

She had spent one afternoon shaping dough for the bread to be served at dinner. Both her hair and her gown—one of the plainer ones she had ordered for wear about the keep—were dusted with flour by the time she was finished. When she had gone upstairs to her chambers to bathe, she had found Sandor there. He had just come from a ride and was also looking to clean up. He had eyed her with raised brows.

“I’m not certain I want to ask what you’ve been into all day, little bird,” he had rumbled.

Sansa had lifted her chin proudly. “The bread you’ll eat at dinner was made by my own hand.”

“Is that so?” he asked, stepping close to her. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek. It came away white with flour. “Then I’d best guard my stomach.” He laughed when she made a face at him.

“That’s unkind,” she said, though she knew he teased her.

“Then you have my apologies,” he said as he traced her jaw with his knuckles.

She tipped her head to the side to allow him to move his hand down her neck. “I’ll have you know that the cook said she’d not seen finer bread made by her keenest apprentices.”

“Said that, did she?” he asked, his fingers sliding into the loose braid she had fashioned in her hair that morning. He tugged her head gently back until she was looking up at him. His eyes flashed with mischief. “Sure she wasn’t putting you on?”

Sansa had planted her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, albeit halfheartedly. He had refused to go. Instead, he had wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her to him. They had been quite late for dinner that night.

“We should be joined by the people of the keep,” she said to him as they lay together in bed. “Should they not partake in the feast?”

“Mayhap they should. If their lady wishes it.”

“She does. And everyone will look well in masks.”

Sandor lifted his head in order to look down at her. “What’s that you say?”

“The Feast of the Stranger is traditionally masked,” said Sansa. “In honor of the faceless god.”

He sighed. “If we must.”

Crawling up his chest, Sansa pressed a kiss to his lips. “It’s only one night. If you detest it, we’ll not do it again next year.”

He shook his head slightly. “Already laying plans for the coming years.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

“Nothing, little bird,” he replied, drawing her close. “It’s just…different. When you live by your sword, you don’t spend much time thinking of what’s to come. You might not have your life come the morrow.”

She felt a stab of uneasiness. She did not often think of how unfamiliar this life must be for him when compared to the one he had expected to live. “Do you miss it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Fighting battles, living by your blade. You once told me that you enjoyed”— _killing—_ “that life. You were forced by the king to sacrifice it. It was not a choice you made for yourself.”

“I didn’t bloody sacrifice anything,” he growled. “I killed because I was good at it. I didn’t know how to do anything else. Seven hells, I still don’t.”

“That’s not true,” Sansa said.

He had not been idle in the weeks since they had arrived at the keep. He had set out almost immediately to see the yards cleaned and ordered. The fences around the pastures had been crumbling, their stones scattered. He had lent his own hands to repairing them. Timbers in the stables had been mended, the roof thatched with fresh straw. He had even talked of going to Lannisport to buy new stock. He intended to breed destriers.

“What about hounds?” Sansa had asked one night as they supped. “Did your father not raise them?”

“He did,” Sandor had replied, “but what use do we have for hounds? I’m no hunter.”

“Horses it shall be, then,” Sansa had said.

Sandor grunted. “There’s work to be done, it’s true, to keep this heap up. And it means I don’t have to sit and hear grievances like a proper lord.”

“You _are_ a proper lord,” said Sansa. “You have lands and a keep and a lady wife.”

“I do have that,” he said, shifting to hold her tightly. “Never thought I would. Never thought it could be…”

Sansa lifted her head to see him properly. “Could be what?”

He stroked a hand down her back, wholly focused on her face. “You. You were just a girl when they took you from Winterfell. You were pretty, but a child. But here you’re a woman grown, and in my bed.” He blinked once, slowly, his face exposed; he was less conscious of the scars now. “You were meant for kings, not for a dog.”

“Do _not_ say that,” Sansa said sharply. “You are better than what Joffrey called you. You’re the lord of your house, not a princeling’s hound.”

The unmarried side of Sandor’s mouth turned up. “My wolf has a bite.”

Sansa pursed her lips, insisting, “I’ll not have my husband deride himself in my presence.”

“As you wish,” he said. Releasing her, he edged toward the side of the mattress, leaving her at the center. “Come, if you’re going to start planning your feast, you had best do it now.”

Grinning, Sansa got out of bed and scampered naked to retrieve her dressing gown.

 

<<< >>>

           

The arrangements filled her days for the next sennight. She set the keep’s women to making papier-mâché masks, adorning them with ribbons and painting them. Alterations were made to her rose-red gown: gold embroidery at the sleeves and neckline, which had been lowered and resewn. It was a more revealing cut than most of the gowns Sansa wore, though far from as indecent as some court ladies’ had been in King’s Landing. She made a mask to match and decorated it with red and gold leaves from the forest surrounding the keep.

The great hall was festooned in black and white draperies, and thick tree branches had been cut to stand in the corners, lit with taper candles. Torches burned brightly and the great hearth was filled with crackling logs. The hunters and bakers and cooks had been busy and even in her chambers, Sansa could smell the delicious scents of the food that would be served.

She hadn’t seen Sandor since that morning, when they had broken their fast together before beginning their day. Sansa had offered to make him a new tunic for the occasion, but he had told her not to bother. She was in a way disappointed, but knew better than to press him to make a fuss; already he was indulging her.

As the sun began to sink low in the evening sky, she retired to bathe and dress. Arianne washed and perfumed her hair, combing it until it was dry and soft as silk. The maid would be in attendance at the feast that night and was twittering with excitement about it. She had a swain in the smithy, a young man named Reddrick, who was keen at shoeing horses. He wasn’t an armorer, but Sandor had made no particular effort to acquire one. He still trained with his blade in the mornings. For lack of an opponent, though, he fought no skirmishes. Sansa might have thought he would suffer for it, but he had not. When offered a chance to lay down his sword, he took it willingly enough.

“What will Reddrick be wearing tonight?” Sansa asked as Arianne was lacing her into her gown.

“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” she replied demurely. “It would spoil the surprise of the night to know him right away.”

Sansa raised a brow, eyeing her in the looking glass. “And if you should find someone else?”

Arianne shook her head. “I would take none other than him, my lady. I’ll know his voice, if anything.” She arranged a headdress of leaves atop Sansa’s head. “I’m afraid there will be no mystery as to Lord Clegane,” she said. “He’s the tallest and broadest man in the keep. He could be in full disguise and anyone would recognize him right away.”

Sansa laughed. “Indeed they would. I doubt he would want to play along with the ruse, anyway.”

“And he would seek no one else but you, my lady. His attention is yours.”

Sansa knew of many husbands who had strayed from their wives for pretty girls, common or noble or whores. She had feared once that hers might leave her for others—if she bored him in lovemaking, she thought, or vexed him otherwise—but Sandor’s gaze had never once lingered on another. Their marriage was still young, to be sure, and there was time for him to tire of her, yet she didn’t believe he would. From time to time, when she was occupied with something else, he would still look at her with a kind of wonder, as if he was amazed by her presence. She felt that she gave him a certain joy, and that, in turn, gave her the same.

“And mine is his,” she said to Arianne.

“Aye, my lady. It’s fair wondrous to see you together.” The maid sobered, saying, “I heard tales of him before I came here. He was a fearsome man and, if you’ll forgive me, my lady, bad tempered. I wasn’t so sure about taking the position here for that, but I heard you were kind and temperate, and it would be you I served and not him.” She adjusted the fall of Sansa’s hair over her shoulder, finger-combing it. “But he’s not anything like the stories. He’s not cruel or rough with the servants. He demands obedience and punishes anyone who doesn’t do their duty, but he’s fair. And he handles you gently, as is your due.”

Sansa caught her hand and brought her around to stand in front of her. “Many of those stories are true, and once I feared him, but he never abused me. I came to trust him more than anyone else in King’s Landing.” She squeezed Arianne’s fingers. “He took care of me then and he does now. I’m thankful for him.”

Arianne regarded her with gentleness. “Do you love him, my lady?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it that,” said Sansa. Her notions of girlhood romance were so long lost that she wasn’t certain what it meant to love. “Still,” she continued, “I care for his happiness and want to do him honor as his wife.”

“You do just that, my lady,” Arianne said. “And maybe someday soon, you’ll bear him children. Would that please you?”

The thought came and went as Sansa visited the children in the village, held the babes of the women there. She was keenly aware of her courses, too, having kept a close watch on them since marrying. They had come just a fortnight before, and she had not known whether to be relieved or disappointed. She had considered more than once asking Sandor whether he wished for strong boys to bear his name, but she had not been courageous enough.

“It would please me, yes,” she said. “But perhaps not quite yet. I’m glad for my life as it is now.”

“And for the bed you share, surely,” Arianne teased.

Sansa smiled. It was no secret she rarely slept in her own chambers, and she knew her pleasure cries could be heard in the night.

“Yes, that too,” she said. Releasing her maid’s hand, she gave herself a last look in the glass. “Will you hand me the mask?” She was given it and carefully set it over her face, tying the ribbons behind her head. It was not sturdy and would last only the night. When she was ready, she went to the door and, as Arianne held it open for her, went through.

In the hall, a harper was already plucking at the strings, accompanied by a girl with a flute. There was no one dancing just yet, but the room was filled with colorfully dressed guests, all of them masked. Sansa hoped to slip in unnoticed, but eyes turned to her as she came into the hall. A few of the commons went to make reverence, but she held up a hand.

“In the eyes of the Stranger,” she said, loudly enough to be heard throughout the hall, “we are all the same. Tonight we celebrate together without formalities.”

If anyone objected, they didn’t speak. The music resumed and a cupbearer came to Sansa with wine, which she gladly accepted. The spices were rich and fragrant, filling her mouth with a woodsy cinnamon taste. She stayed to the outside of the hall, where she could best see all in attendance. They were animated and happily sampling the finger foods that had been laid out on the table. It was a rich spread, far finer than many of them ate in their homes. There was to be no formal meal, only the grazing of the various dishes supplied by the cooks. Servants flitted amongst the revelers, too, though Sansa had made it clear that they were to partake in the festivities as well.

She saw Arianne come in a few minutes after she had and glance expectantly around. Her Reddrick didn’t waste time in finding her, and they embraced upon meeting. The flautist and harper had been joined by a man with a hand drum and a slip of a girl with a fiddle. When they played together, a space was cleared for dancing. The dancers skipped and swung to the music, the ladies’ skirts flying and men’s bootheels landing solidly with each step. Laughter echoed around the hall, and Sansa was glad to hear it.

“My lady.”

She hadn’t noticed the slight young man who had come to stand at her elbow, but she turned to him now, taking in his homespun tunic, leather breeks, and worn boots. His mask was painted red and covered all of his face save for his mouth and chin.

“Good evening,” Sansa said.

His throat worked as he swallowed, but he asked with only a slight tremor to his voice, “Would you maybe dance with me, my lady?”

On an ordinary day he might be a stablehand or a thatcher and would never have dared ask for such a favor, but tonight he was given leave, and Sansa offered her hand for him to take.

“It would be my honor,” she said.

He smiled beneath the mask and took her fingers in his to lead her to the floor. The others made space for them and they went together into the steps. The boy was a keen dancer and light on his feet. Sansa’s heavy skirts restricted her somewhat, but she managed to keep up with him well enough. When the song came to an end, he bowed to her and she inclined her head, thanking him. As soon as he had gone, another man—this one older and with a thick beard on his chin—appeared to take his place.

Sansa was passed from partner to partner, joining the others in their merriment. She stopped only when she saw the side door open again. As Arianne had said, there was no mistaking Sandor, even with the mask over his face. The musicians continued to play, but attention in the room fell on him. From what Sansa could see of his eyes, he was searching the crowd. Excusing herself from her partner, she stepped forward. Immediately, he found her.

They met near the center of the table, and Sansa sunk deep in reverence. “Sandor,” she said. She hadn’t used his title since he had bid her not to weeks before.

He held out his broad hand. “Little bird.”

Sansa put her hand into his. “May the Stranger favor you.”

“Save your blessings, girl,” he said. “I don’t need them.”

“Whether or not you do,” said countered, “I will still pray for you.” Drawing him along, she found cups of wine for both of them.

“You did well,” Sandor said, glancing around the hall.

Sansa sipped her wine. “It pleases me you approve.”

“Makes no matter to me. This was your desire.” He was playing at being taciturn, but his tone wasn’t completely cold.

Sansa said, “It was, and I thank you for allowing it. It will put the whole keep in good spirits for at least a month.”

“And you?” Sandor asked.

“And me,” she replied. “Will you dance tonight?”

He scoffed. “No. I learned swordplay, not dancing.” His eyes burned with accusation behind his mask. “Don’t expect me to try, either.”

Sansa laid a hand on his arm, soothing. “Of course not. In truth, I believe you would be good at it. You’re careful where you put your feet when you fight. It’s not so different from dancing.”

A warning: “I won’t do it, girl.”

“You needn’t,” she said. “We can watch.”

They drank their wine down, unspeaking as they watched the dancers. No one approached Sansa for another dance—she assumed they daren’t approach her with Sandor nearby. Despite proving he wasn’t harsh, he was still gruff and short in his addresses, and he cut an intimidating figure. Everyone in Clegane Keep was a bit afraid of him, all save Sansa; and that earned her their respect.

Sansa was delighted when one of the servants came to her with a tray of lemon cakes, which she had ordered specially. Greedily, she took two, closing her eyes as she bit into the first one. Nothing tasted better, she was sure of it.

“Those please you better than I do,” Sandor said, leaning down to speak in her ear.

Sansa licked the powdered sugar from her lips. She didn’t miss the way he looked down at her mouth.

“I’m not so sure,” she said lightly. “You pleased me very well this morning.”

There were times when he woke her with insistent caresses, his mouth at her breast or lower. He knew how to reduce her speechlessness with his lips and tongue between her legs. She had been affronted when he had done it the first time, but her pleas for him to stop—surely it was unappealing to taste her there—had faded with the first few kisses. He had done just that as dawn was breaking that day.

Sandor chuckled, an edge of wickedness to it. “I’d rather taste that than a hundred cakes.”

Sansa held the second cake at the level of his mouth. “Try this.”

Carefully, he bit into it, the white sugar sticking to his upper lip. He chewed thoughtfully. “I still prefer your sweetness, little bird,” he said.

“As you say." Smiling, she took another bite of the cake.

Sandor poured one more cup of wine for them both, though Sansa left hers for the moment. He drank deeply, even if he rarely imbibed as deeply as he once had.

“This isn’t good enough for you,” he spoke lowly, after a time.

Sansa, perplexed, looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

He swirled his wine around in his cup, frowning deeply. “This keep, these people. You should be in a castle with ladies to attend you. You don’t have that here.”

“Are you asking if I’m lonely?” she said. When he didn’t reply, she pressed on: “I’m not. I’m busy enough with tasks around the keep. I have Arianne to keep me company. I visit the village and the kitchens.”

“All below you,” Sandor insisted. “Don’t you want for women your own age, and noble?”

Sansa considered. “Maybe some days,” she replied, “but rarely. I didn’t have many friends in King’s Landing. I was cast out. I’m far more content here that I ever was there.”

Sandor pushed a hand through his hair, for once not worried about baring his scars. “You’ll grow bored with time. I shouldn’t keep you here.”

“Where else would we go?”

“Lannisport,” he said. “You could find a house there and be glader for it.”

Sansa rounded on him, taking his wine cup from his hands and holding them in her own. “Do you want to send me away?” she asked.

“No,” he said, curt. “But I won’t keep you prisoner in this place.”

“Sandor,” she said gently, “I’m happy here. It’s not a prison. It’s peaceful, and I’ve wanted so long for peace. How can I assure you this is where I want to be?”

He blinked at her through his mask, grey eyes reflecting uncertainty. “I didn’t think I deserved peace.”

“You do,” said Sansa. “We’ve both suffered, but now we can rest. I promise I’ll tell you if I’m discontent, but put your doubts aside.” She pressed her lips together, mustering her courage. “And if there are children, I’d want to stay.”

His grip on her hands tightened. “Are you—”

“No,” she was quick to say, “but it can’t be long. We’re together often enough. And it’s my duty as your wife.”

“Not if you don’t want it. I don’t need a brood.”

Sansa touched his unmarred cheek, just under the mask. “I’ll proudly bear your sons.”

Sandor raised her hand to his lips, brushing them along the knuckles. He sighed fondly, “Little bird.”


	5. The Feast of the Crone

**The Feast of the Crone**

“Hells,” Sansa hissed as she sucked her thumb into her mouth. Her thoughts had been elsewhere as she embroidered and she had pricked herself with the needle. In the frame was fine linen dyed rich yellow into which she was stitching the three hounds of House Clegane, her house, now. It was meant for the bodice of a gown, one of the new wardrobe she would have to be fitted for in the next months, if she was not mistaken about what was to come.

She had said nothing about the delay in her courses, but Arianne had taken notice. Just the night before, as Sansa had been bathing, the sweet maid had said timidly, “My lady, I’ve not washed your moonsblood dressings in three months. Is all well?”

Sansa had smiled up at her, unable to lie. “It is.”

Arianne read the meaning easily enough and beamed. “Oh, my lady! That is so wonderful! Does Lord Clegane know?”

“Not yet,” Sansa replied, “and I’ll thank you to tell no one. It’s still so early that there’s time yet for things to go wrong.” She remembered well the warnings about the first few months, when the child hadn’t yet taken a strong hold and could be lost.

“Not much time, my lady,” said Arianne. “Have you spoken to the midwife?”

There was a woman in the village who helped all the women through their births, but Sansa hadn’t been to visit her home. She had been hesitant, as her presence there would surely reveal her secret.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” she mused. With a sigh: “I don’t want to risk the child.”

Arianne combed her fingers gently through Sansa’s hair, pulling it back from her face. “I can take you there under the cover of darkness, my lady. I will go to Essylt tomorrow and arrange it. You can go to her in the night, when no one will be about to see you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sansa. “You clever girl, thinking of such a thing.” She hesitated. “Though I must somehow make my excuses to Sandor. He expects me to be abed with him.”

“You could tell him you’re unwell,” Arianne said. “Would he leave you to your own bed then?”

Sansa wasn’t sure he would. She had not been ill since she had come to Clegane Keep, and had not spent a night out of his bed, even when she had her courses. They didn’t lie together those nights, but he still held her close as they slept. There had to be something she could say, though, to beg off without worrying him unduly.

“He won’t like it,” she said. “He might suggest sitting up with me.”

Arianne chewed her pink lips. “I can do that. Surely he’d trust you to me.”

Sansa took her hand and squeezed. “You’re not a nurse, my dear, but a maid. He might send for a healer. There’s an herbalist in the village.”

“Could we perhaps say we’re sending for him, then, but bring Essylt instead?” Arianne asked. “I’m sure she can be secretive if she must.”

“No,” said Sansa. “He would want to be in the room. I must go to her.”

“My lady, you _could_ tell him the truth.”

Sansa knew that well, but she was apprehensive about how he might react. They hadn’t spoken of it since the night of the Feast of the Stranger, months past. She was happy in their life as it was; a babe would change it fundamentally. Some men didn’t take well to their wives in childbed and through their nursing. She feared that he would go away from her, leaving her with only the child for company. Eddard Stark, her father, had been close to Catelyn throughout her lying-in, but he was a rare man, so kind and good to his children and to his wife. Sansa wasn’t certain she could take Sandor’s measure when he was put through the same ordeal.

“Let the midwife tell me the child is strong and that I’m ready to bear before he learns of it,” she said. There was no going back after that; he would have to accept it for what it was. Seven protect her, she needed guidance and strength in this.

“What if, my lady,” Arianne said, “you were to hold vigil in the sept for the Feast of the Crone? It’s just three days hence. Would he allow you that?”

“He knows I have faith,” said Sansa thoughtfully. “Though I have not prayed that long before. But it _is_ tradition for some.” She turned in the bath to look at her maid, hoping. “I believe we might manage it if we tell him that.”

Arianne smiled. “Very good, my lady. I’ll see to the midwife and you prepare the vestments and cushions you’ll need for a vigil.”

Sansa nodded, giddy with a mix of excitement and worry. Sandor would _have_ to believe her, and she would have to forbid him entry to the sept while she was at prayer. It was a thinly believable deception, and she was sorry for lying to him, but for her sake, she needed to do this.

 

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After they had supped the night next, she and Sandor retired to their chambers to spend the last few hours before they retired to sleep. Most nights they talked of their days, which they didn’t often spend together. Sandor’s new horses had arrived and he was occupied with their training and planning for which he would breed this year. With them had come a stablemaster, who would oversee their care, but Sandor was resolved to be a part of the process, rather than just inspecting the foals when they were born. It seemed to please him, which Sansa was glad for.

She had kept to the keep that day under the auspices of being too tired to venture out. She played at embroidering, but she spent more time laying plans with Arianne, who had been to the midwife.

“She’ll see you, of course, my lady,” the maid had told her. “She is already preparing the necessary charms to protect the babe.”

Sansa had raised her brows. “Old magic?”

“Aye, my lady. Ancient, but tried and true. Pray to the Mother, of course, but why not accept the other charms as well? Anything to guard you through these next few months and through the birth.” Her blue eyes went wide. “Losing you would be unbearable, my lady. For all of us. Especially Lord Clegane. He cares for you so.”

Sansa warmed at that, knowing it was true. Sandor kept her close and made sure she had all the comforts she desired. In that he was like her father, and like the husbands she had dreamed up for herself as a girl. Though she would not be present for all of her vigil on the Feast of the Crone, she would thank the goddess for him.

“I’ll accept the charms,” she had said. “And I’ll take the greatest of care.”

As she and Sandor sat together before the fire, she prepared herself to deliver her fibs. He hated liars, and she feared he wouldn’t forgive her for this, but there was no other way but to deceive him. He was sipping at a cup of mulled wine and looking into the flames, silent. Sansa spoke his name quietly, and he turned.

“I have a request,” she said. “Two days from now is the Feast of the Crone, and I would like to make reverence. I want to keep an all-night vigil in the sept in her honor.”

If he was taken aback by the request, he didn’t show it.

Sansa pressed on. “I feel the need to commune with her. I am in need of guidance, and she is wise.”

“What guidance?” Sandor rumbled. “Are you lost, little bird?”

“Only wishing for her blessings,” she replied. “I am not so worldly, and have no family to advise me.”

Sandor frowned. “What would they tell you that you don’t already know?”

“I have never been the lady of a house,” she said truthfully, “and while I try not to show it, I am sometimes uncertain that I am caring for it and for our people as they deserve.”

A scoff from her husband. “This is your house. Do with it as you please.”

Sansa kept her expression soft, even a little shy. “I want to do you honor.”

“Fuck honor,” Sandor snarled.

Sansa balked; he hadn’t been so coarse in some time. But she had struck a nerve, she realized. She didn’t often mention such things to him; she knew well that he hated them just as much as lies.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

He cut her off: “No, little bird. Don’t do that. And forget about honor. What you do now is enough.”

Sansa smiled, but said, “Still, I would like to pray.”

“Do as you want,” he sighed. “I can’t stop you.”

“You could. You’re my lord.”

Sandor shot her a cold look. “I don’t own you or command you. If you want to pray, pray.” He took a sip of wine. “If I must sleep alone, I will.”

There it was, Sansa thought fondly. “I’ll come to you in the morning, and we can stay abed until the candles are burned down.”

He snorted but didn’t object.

Sansa reached across the distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you.” He took her narrow fingers in his large ones and began to tell her about the horses, the matter of the vigil settled to both of their satisfaction.

 

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The sept was colder than the rest of the castle, as there was no hearth to warm it. Sansa had dressed in her thickest woolen gown and carried a muff of brown fox fur to keep her hands from freezing. She had been kneeling before the altar of the Crone for an hour and already her legs were aching. She tried to ignore the pain and focus on her prayers, but her attention was on the door as she waited for Arianne to appear with a dark cloak so they might go the village to see the midwife. There were no hour-minder candles to mark the passing time, and Sansa fidgeted discontentedly. When she finally heard a soft knocking, she scrambled to her feet to admit her maid.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Arianne whispered.

Sansa swung the cloak over her shoulders and raised the hood to hide her face and hair. They slipped out and into the cold night. Crystalline, icy snow was floating in the air, reflecting the light from their lantern in a frosty halo, but it fortunately wasn’t sticking to the ground to mark their footsteps. They hastened out of the keep’s yard and through the gate, saying nothing and hoping they were not seen.

The midwife’s house was a squat wood and mud-brick structure, the roof thatched with decaying straw. Sansa had suggested better lodgings for her in the past, but she had declined. The roughness of the hut kept her grounded in the earth, she said, to the old magics that still guided her hand in childbirth. The door hung crookedly and with gaps around the frame, letting the light from inside spill out onto the frozen ground at Sansa’s feet. Even from outside she could smell the incense.

“Essylt,” Arianne said, rapping her gloved knuckles against the door. “We are here.”

The door was cracked only just slightly, and Sansa for a moment saw the face of the Crone’s image in the sept in the woman who peered out.

“Come, then,” said the midwife, and allowed them inside.

Warmth washed over them and the scent of woodfire. The smoke rose up through the chimney, but there was still a haze around the hut. Herbs and copper charms hung from the low ceiling, and there was a pot of something fragrant simmering over the fire.

“Lady Clegane,” Essylt said, making her reverence. “This is a happy day. You are with child at last.” Her grin had gaps in it, several of her teeth missing.

“Yes,” said Sansa. “I’ve come for your guidance.”

“Mm, yes, of course. Take off your cloak and your gown so I might see you.”

There was no curtain to duck behind, but Sansa knew this woman would see her in childbed in a few months, where modesty made no matter at all. She did as she was bid and undressed down to her shift. Her belly was fuller and her breasts tender, but it could be blamed at this time upon too much rich food rather than pregnancy.

Essylt waddled over and laid her hands over Sansa’s middle, muttering quietly to herself. “You’re progressing well, my lady. The babe is growing strong. It won’t be long before it shows.” She cocked a patchy grey eyebrow. “And yet you hide it.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “I wanted to be sure it would truly quicken before I told my lord.”

“You needn’t have worried,” said Essylt. “You’re young and healthy, and the lord’s seed is potent.”

In the corner, Arianne was flushed and abashed, looking down. Sansa held back a laugh at her innocence.

Essylt backed away from Sansa, going to a table where a mortar and pestle were standing. She took them up and began to grind whatever the mortar contained. “Are you ill in the mornings?”

“Rarely,” Sansa replied. “That is a reason I was uncertain I was with child. I had heard all my life that the sickness was often severe.”

“It depends on the woman,” Essylt said. “You’re fortunate. I’ll not bother with the herbs to spare your stomach.” She held up the mortar. “This is for steadying you. It’s a tea that you can drink in the night before you sleep. Doesn’t taste so delicious, but it will benefit you.”

“All right,” said Sansa. “There are charms, too?”

The midwife chuckled. “Yes, yes.” She poured the tea infusion into a leather pouch and handed it to Arianne. She went to a few of the tokens that hung from the lintel, sorting through them for a moment before selecting one. “This is the protection you’ll need to hold the babe in. Wear it until the ninth month, when you must be delivered of it.”

Sansa took the amulet and put it over her head. It hung between her breasts, cold until it warmed on her skin. “Do you know what it will be? Boy or girl?”

Essylt came back to her and looked her over, touching her shoulders and then her belly. Sansa had to stifle a shocked sound when she reached between her legs.

“No one can truly be sure, my lady, but I see a girl for you.”

Arianne said, “Oh, my lady, how lovely!”

“Yes,” Sansa breathed. A daughter would give her tremendous joy. She hoped Sandor would be glad of that, too. Perhaps he preferred a son and heir. She doubted that, though. He cared nothing for lineage and family names, and hadn’t expected to be responsible for carrying his on.

“Now,” Essylt said sternly, “you’ll need to come to me more often so that I might examine you. I expect an easy carrying this first time, but all young mothers need the wisdom of an old woman who had seen her share of births. Will you come again at night, or shall I come to you?” She huffed. “It won’t be a secret for long.”

“You are welcome at the keep, if it please you,” Sansa said. “I will receive you there.”

“Mm, yes, very well. For now, my lady, you may go. I will advise you further in time, when it is appropriate.” She held out Sansa’s gown for her to pull on.

Sansa dressed quickly with Arianne’s help while Essylt stirred the concoction in the pot in the hearth. She ladled out a small portion into a wooden cup and pushed it into Sansa’s hands.

“A balm for your fears,” the midwife said. “Be easy, my lady. Your lord will be ready for your news.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how the old woman guessed such things, but she drank the sweet drink down.

“Goodnight, Essylt,” she said, “and thank you.”

“Goodnight, Lady Clegane, and gods go with you.”

 

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Sansa left the sept at daybreak exhausted and sore from holding herself in prayer for half the night. The keep was only just stirring and she wasn’t bothered as she made her way back to her chambers. The fire had burned down to embers, but she didn’t stir it and put on another few logs. Instead she went straight into the bedchamber, where Sandor was lying in bed. He had once slept lightly and tensely, but in the months since they had been in Clegane Keep, he had learned to rest more deeply. He didn’t stir as Sansa undressed. It wasn’t until she slid under the firs beside him that he groaned and opened his eyes.

“Good morning,” Sansa said, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder.

He put his arm around her. “Have you prayed your fill, little bird?”

“I have.” She shifted against him, making ready. “I haven’t told you all of late, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Keeping secrets?” he said, a note of suspicion in his voice.

Sansa kissed his neck. “Only one.”

“And you’ll tell me now?”

“I will.” He paused to wait, and she breathed in. “In six months, Sandor, you’ll have your first child.”

Immediately, he shifted so he could look at her. The shock was apparent, and Sansa tensed.

“Are you pleased?” she asked.

Sandor stroked her back. “You’re three months gone and you said nothing? Why would you keep this from me?”

She tried to soothe him with a gentle touch at the crown of his head. “I wanted to be sure. Will you forgive me?”

He blinked once, slowly. “I will forgive you anything, little bird. And yes, it pleases me. Does it you?”

“Of course,” she said, nestling into him again. She felt his sigh as much as she heard it.

“I never imagined a child,” he said. “Bringing one into this wreck of a world to suffer. Children get sick and die. They’re ruined like me, or monsters like Gregor. But then there are those like you: gentle, but strong. What you’ve faced, only to end up here... And now you’ll risk your life because I couldn’t keep my hands off of you.”

Sansa said, stunned, “You would have stayed away from my bed to keep me from getting with child?”

“I expected to. I wouldn’t hurt you like the others. But I couldn’t resist you, not when you came to me willingly.”

“Of course, I did,” she insisted. “I’m your wife, and I _want_ to lie with you.”

He groaned as if pained. “No child is worth your life.”

“The midwife says I’m well and will overcome this safely,” Sansa murmured. “I go into it happily. I want to bear for you.”

“ _Why_ , little bird?” Sandor asked, strident. “Why would you do that for _me_?”

“Because you were kind to me when no one else was,” she replied. “You were rough with me, yes, but never abused me. And you brought me here and gave me a home and happiness.” She cupped the scarred side of his face, even if she knew he disliked when she did. “I could think of no one to love better than you.”

He froze, thin lips parted. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

Sansa leaned down, kissing him as she said, “I mean it, Sandor, my husband, my dear love.”

He delved into her with desperation, clutching her to him. “Sansa, Sansa,” he whispered against her skin.

She let him take what he wanted, touch and kiss every part of her. He put her onto her back and crept down to touch her belly. She petted his hair, watching him look at her in awe. When he turned his eyes back up to hers, they were wet. She wept, too, and then laughed for all the gladness. Sandor was solemn as ever, but he came back up and wrapped his arms around her.

“I said I don’t own you,” he said to her, “but you own _me_ , every part. I’m lost to you, little bird. I’ve always been.”

Sansa said, “We belong to each other and the family we’ll soon have.” She believed it with all her heart.


End file.
